


The Madness Of Colonel Warburton (1889)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [103]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Attempted Murder, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Madness, One Night Stands, Poisoning, Sons, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-07 16:50:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11063121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: It is Watson's turn to face the shadows from his past – except that in his case, the shadows are not just very much alive, but are also involved in a potential case of murder.





	The Madness Of Colonel Warburton (1889)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [manifestingwings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/manifestingwings/gifts).



My beloved Sherlock often poked gentle fun at my cynical view of the Universe in general, in particular at my belief that things always went wrong sooner or later. In fairness, I could perhaps have countered at that time as to how good my life had seemed before his sudden three-year absence from it (I little knew how soon that terrible experience was to be repeated, and to a much worse degree). It was true; I believed that even if good things did happen, matters always evened themselves out in the end. So when I returned happily from my trip to see Sammy - dead bodies in the next coach permitting – I was wary as to what life had in store to throw at me next.

Rightly so, as things turned out.

+~+~+

“We may have a new case”, Sherlock announced, about a week after Valentine’s Day. “A Mrs. Matthew Warburton wishes us to investigate as to whether her father-in-law is being poisoned, as he is suffering from sporadic attacks of madness.”

The name was vaguely familiar to me from somewhere, most probably from the social pages which I may have spared the occasional passing glance at when I had the occasion. And someone could stop smirking right this minute!

“Surely such a request would more likely come from her husband, or a blood relative?” I wondered, choosing to generously overlook his amusement. 

“She is markedly uninformative in her communication”, Sherlock said, frowning down at his letter as if it had displeased him, “but reading between the lines, it seems there is discord between her husband and his brothers. She asks if we can visit her at” – he squinted at the letter – “Stoke Fratrum, some miles north of the town of Alresford in the county of Hampshire. Her father-in-law is the local squire there.”

I frowned. The town too was familiar from somewhere or other in my past, but the memory remained irritatingly elusive.

“It all sounds rather strange”, I remarked. “But we should definitely attend, if she has asked for you. I can easily get Peter to cover my case load, as he still owes me for covering his wife’s pregnancy last year.”

“I did read in the newspapers that the city's population is expanding”, Sherlock smiled. “He seems to be responsible for quite a large part of that!”

+~+~+

Thus it was that the following day we decamped to Waterloo Station, this time taking the Winchester train and alighting at the aforementioned town of Alresford, the nearest station to Stoke Fratrum. A twenty-minute carriage ride later, and we were in the village itself, which was charmingly set in its own little dean and had a small grey-stone church as well as a tavern, the Pilgrim’s Rest. It was quite idyllic, even down to the unusually warm weather and gentle breeze that welcomed us.

Henston Hall itself was a lovely building, just large enough to fulfil the requirements of a manor house but small enough to function like a family home. It was very much the sort of place that I could see myself a squire as, if one of my more obliging clients decided to show their gratitude by bequeathing me all their wealth, or if pigs started flying. We were told that Mrs. Warburton was expecting us, and we were to be shown straight into her presence, if that was acceptable. It was, and a servant led us to a small reception room off the main hall. I stepped in behind Sherlock – and froze!

Oh. My. Lord!

+~+~+

Mrs. Matthew Warburton. Formerly Miss Lisa Braeden, the one woman that I had slept with that one time during Sherlock's three-year absence from my life in the early eighties. That was why the name and place had been familiar to me; I remembered now reading how she had married a young fellow called Warburton from this place just after..... well, just after. As a doctor I should have been highly skilled at hiding my emotions, but it would not have needed a detective of Sherlock's great ability to know from my reaction that something was very wrong here. I looked as if I had seen a ghost!

“Lisa!", I said dumbly. And in a voice that suggested I had been inhaling helium. 

Sherlock looked between us curiously. I 'detected' that my immediate future would contain a somewhat difficult conversation (of course, that would turn out to be the one time that I would be proven all too right).

“Yes”, she said. She seemed almost as shocked as I was, and it took her some little time to gather her thoughts. “Matthew..... I met him just after we...... you know.”

I knew. Oh, I knew. I could not possibly have felt any worse! 

Which showed just how much I underestimated the Universe and its ability to put the boot in even harder, because at that moment a door opened to the side, and a small boy ran into the room and up to Lisa – Mrs. Warburton. He had sandy-brown curly hair and a cheerful smile. 

And green eyes. 

“Benjamin, I told you that I had visitors”, she said disapprovingly as a breathless nanny came rushing through the door after her charge, to receive a pout from the boy. “I will play with you later, once I have sorted out my business.”

“But mama…” he objected.

She silenced him with a look. Though it was nothing compared to the one that I was getting from Sherlock. In the name of all that was holy, how did I end up in such a mess?

+~+~+

Refreshments were served, and Li.... Mrs. Warburton insisted on our eating before she told us of why she had asked for my friend's help. Thus it was about an hour later that the three of us finally got down to business, I instinctively placing Sherlock between the two of us almost as a shield. Judging from the look on her face, she knew exactly what I was doing. Worse, from the look on _his face_ , so did he.

I wondered what Antarctica was like at this time of year.

“My father-in-law Tom - Colonel Warburton - owns the Hall”, she explained. “Currently he is being sedated under our local doctor, after he suffered a bout of madness after dinner the night before last. This was his third such attack, yet he has been completely lucid between them, and shown no signs of the malady outside of the attacks. I would appreciate, John, if you could make your own diagnosis of him.”

I winced at her casual use of my Christian name. The slightest twitch of an eyebrow told me that Sherlock had, of course, spotted it.

“I will do so”, I said. “You married his son, then?”

“Matthew is his youngest son”, she said. “He has two others, George and Tommy. All of us were at dinner that night, so I do not see how anything that my father-in-law ate could have been tampered with in any way, yet he was ill not long afterwards.”

Sherlock, bless him, did not comment on my apparent discomfort. Yet, a small but annoying voice whispered at the back of my mind.

“If I investigate this case”, he said, giving me a look that said quite clearly that we would be having that difficult conversation before I could pack for points south, “I shall need to ask some questions that you may deem either irrelevant or impertinent. Be assured, Madam, that every question will have a purpose. First, I am afraid that I must be direct. In the event of your uncle’s incapacity or death, who inherits the estate?”

“That is a good point”, she said. “Until last year, the estate was to be split three ways, equally between the sons. However, around that time the colonel had a severe illness - pneumonia, nothing to do with his current affliction - and called his sons home. Matt and Tommy came, but George did not, preferring to stay in the North to ‘pursue a business opportunity’, so he claimed.” Her lip curled in disdain. “As a result, the colonel rewrote his will. Matt and Tommy are now to get two-fifths each, and George only one-fifth, so it would still take two of them to decide on the future of the manor house.”

She hesitated. 

“And the Colonel's attacks only started after the eldest son found out that he had been partially disinherited”, Sherlock said. 

She nodded. Sherlock thought for a moment.

“What is your local doctor like?”

She snorted disdainfully.

“Percival Smith is a fool!” she said bluntly, “but I would stake the house on his being an honest fool. I do not think that he could be bribed, if only because he would then go round and tell everyone about it afterwards.”

Sherlock paused.

“The doctor and I had better stay at the local inn”, he said eventually. “I do not wish to inconvenience a household already upset by the semi-removal of its master. Do you have a book on the family’s history?”

She seemed a little surprised at the question, but nodded.

“It is on display in the big glass case in the library, directly opposite this room”, she said, “Would you like me to have one of the servants show you there?”

“I only wish to check a few things”, Sherlock said, getting up. “I am sure that the good doctor can keep you... ‘entertained’ in my brief absence.”

He looked meaningfully at me, and was gone from the room before I had the chance to swat at him. Mrs. Warburton looked at me, and seemed to feel almost as awkward as I did. The world most unfairly did not choose to end at that particular moment.

“So”, I said, eloquent as ever.

“So”, she echoed. 

“Benjamin”, I said. “He is.... four years old?”

I was clearly asking much more than her son’s age, and she knew it.

“Four years and six months”, she said quietly. “His birthday is in August.”

I swallowed hard. An important part of my life depended on my next question.

“Matthew?” I said eloquently.

“He does not know”, she said heavily. She was looking at me in a way that stated quite clearly that she was concerned over my intentions.

“When did you get married?” I asked. 

“New Year’s Day after we......”, she trailed off. “I thought that I was probably expecting, because….”

This belonged in some book entitled “Most Awkward Conversations Ever”. It definitely featured in the top ten of my own personal best (or worst), if not in the top one. I thought back to that sandy-haired little boy, and felt a lump forming in my throat. And this so soon after Sherlock had both found and lost his own son. Life was unfair.

“Matt has blue eyes”, she said, looking at me anxiously. “His great-grandfather on his mother's side had green ones, so I just said that they must have resurfaced.”

As a doctor, I knew that mathematically speaking that was about as unlikely as Mankind ever getting men on the Moon, but I did not say it. 

“Matthew is a good father?” I ventured.

“The best!” she said firmly. 

The implication was clear; back off. I sighed.

+~+~+

Mercifully, Sherlock did not ask me about my discussion with Mrs. Warburton as we were driven back to the village. After we had secured a room at the inn and had a surprisingly passable dinner, we retired to our room, a twin with a double and single bed. I asked about his research. 

“I went down to the kitchens and spoke with Mrs. Fulmore, the cook”, he said. “I thought it best to get her account of the day of the potential poisoning.”

I lay back on the double bed, and he watched me from the other one, clearly a little uncertain.

“I want to tell you everything”, I said softly. And I did. 

When I had finished, I turned away from him and stared at the ugly wallpaper.

“Is there any doubt?” he asked eventually. I sniffed.

“None”, I said sourly. “The chance of green eyes jumping a generation is as close to zero as makes no difference. I am that poor boy's father, Sherlock!”

I left out the obvious follow-on from that. I nearly burst when I felt the bed creak under his weight, and he snuggled in behind me.

“You feel that you betrayed me in some way”, he said softly.

I was not crying. Grown men did not cry. It was probably an allergic reaction. To that horrible wallpaper, most likely. He pulled me closer, and I gulped.

“You had no way of knowing when or if I was coming back”, he whispered. “You had a right to get on with your life....”

“I betrayed you!” I bit out. “Hell, Sherlock, I loved you even then, and I went and slept with someone else!”

“If you had known for certain that I would be returning, perhaps I would have a right to be angry”, he said, far too reasonably. “But you had none. I wish that I could tell you why I had to go away for so long, but I cannot. But I will tell you this, John. I missed you all the time I was away, and it was my desperate longing to be back with you that finally drew me home.”

I let out a sob, turned, and curled into him. He wrapped his arms around me even tighter, and we lay there in the darkness of a winter's evening in a cold Hampshire inn, two men in love. I did not deserve this wonderful man's forgiveness, but I was determined to earn it. Every day of our lives together.

+~+~+

I woke the following morning after a surprisingly good night's rest, despite the fact that I had gone to bed almost fully clothed. The fact that Sherlock was still holding me in his arms was, just possibly, one factor in that. I shifted in his embrace, and he woke, bleary-eyed as usual.

“What will you do?” he asked quietly.

A good question, and one I had spent much of the evening before worrying over. Legally, I could demand access to the boy, and I might even gain custody of him with a smart enough lawyer. But aside from my somewhat irregular life with Sherlock, I knew that I could not do that to a boy who was clearly happy with his current life. My friend fondled my cheek. 

“You already know what you have to do”, he said softly. “You are too much of a good man to do anything else. You can only offer her your support, and be ready to help if ever needed.”

“But what if her husband is involved in the poisoning?” I asked.

He looked at me narrowly.

“Would you wish that?” he asked softly.

And a very small part of me, a very bad part of me, whispered yes. I said nothing, but Sherlock knew. He always knew.

+~+~+

We returned to the Hall later that morning, to be met by the Warburton brothers. The inn had proven to be a treasure-trove of gossip, and we knew that there was a significant age gap between George, the eldest, and his two younger siblings, the reason being that Colonel Warburton had married twice. His first wife ('a right floozy' was amongst the politer descriptions from the locals) had left him for another man, after which he had retired from London society to Henston, his ancestral home. He had married again sometime after, but his second wife, having secured the dynasty with two more sons, had died giving birth to a stillborn daughter. Local opinion was that because of this, there had always been bad blood between the Warburtons, especially between the colonel and his eldest son after the latter’s refusal to come home the previous year.

George Warburton was in his late thirties, a bluff red-faced fellow tending towards corpulence. He was clearly against our involvement, unlike his brothers, who both welcomed us. Thomas Warburton was in his late twenties and his brother Matthew a year or two younger, both tall, silent men with grave expressions on their faces. From the cordiality of Matthew Warburton’s welcome, I deduced that his wife had not mentioned the connection between her and myself. Thank Heaven for small mercies!

Sherlock remained with the brothers whilst I was shown up to see the colonel, who was still under sedation. Doctor Percival Smith was with him, and I quickly formed a favourable impression of the older man, agreeing with his diagnosis that the colonel was suffering from madness. Though the cause was a mystery, as there was apparently no history of it in the family.

“I have read many of your detective books”, Doctor Smith said, blushing as if admitting to some cardinal sin rather than such exceptionally good taste in literature, “and I have taken one or two investigative measures myself. I covertly extracted samples of the colonel’s shaving cream and other toiletries and tested them myself, but found nothing. However….”

He stopped, looking guilty for some reason.

“What is it?” I pressed.

“I treated Mr. Matthew for a severe chest infection a few weeks ago”, he said slowly. “Whilst I was in his room, I found a book which he had borrowed from the library down in Alresford. It was about certain poisons which can cause madness.”

“Oh”, I said, trying to suppress a horrible feeling of pleasure at the revelation. “Mr. Matthew.”

+~+~+

“This is all stuff and nonsense”, Mr. George Warburton said, a little too loudly. 

Sherlock had asked all sorts of questions, and it was now time for dinner. He had, just after arriving, been down to the kitchen and somehow persuaded the cook to produce much the same meal as on the day the colonel’s madness had flared up. Mercifully (for my sake) there was only the six of us; my so.... little Benjamin Warburton was eating alone with his nanny.

How did I get myself into messes like this?

“It is my opinion that something the colonel ingested that day brought on his madness”, Sherlock said firmly. “Now, all of you were at that fateful meal. I need to know who ate or didn’t eat which dish.”

Amidst a lot of discussion, the meal progressed slowly. It had been a Sunday, so it had been (and was again) roast beef, Yorkshire pudding and vegetables, followed by blancmange for dessert and then coffee. There was some little disagreement over who had eaten what, but the general upshot was that the colonel did not eat anything which had not also been eaten by at least one of the other people at the table. I fully expected Sherlock to look disappointed at that, but to my surprise he did not.

“The old man was sulking, I remember”, Matthew Warburton said. “That fool of a doctor had left a list of things he couldn’t eat because they might start him off again, and blancmange was on it.”

(Before I am assailed by representatives of the blancmange industry - yes, I _do_ get that sort of letter! - I should clarify that statement with the fact that this was a lemon blancmange, and the citric acid used in its preparation had been the sole reason for the prohibition).

“What did he have instead?” Sherlock asked.

“The remains of an apple pie from the day before, with custard”, George Warburton said. “He and I had half each; I hate blancmange!”

Sherlock nodded at that.

”So there was no way that he could have been poisoned at the dinner table, then?” Thomas Warburton asked.

“He was not”, Sherlock said firmly. Mr. George Warburton stared at him.

“But you said…..” he began.

“I said that something he ingested that day brought on his madness”, Sherlock explained. “I did not say that that something came from his main meal. But since his attacks came when they did, then allowing for digestion, he clearly ate something else very soon after that meal. I shall have to make further inquiries to find out what it was.” 

He turned to the eldest Warburton.

“I have a feeling that the colonel may have been given something in his room”, he said. “With your permission, I would like to search it...”

“No!” Mr. George Warburton snorted. “That is a complete invasion of privacy!”

“We could have the old man moved to another room whilst he is under”, his brother Thomas said. 

“Doctor Smith has only just sedated him”, I pointed out. “Moving him at this time would be unwise. It would be better to wait until tomorrow morning when it starts to wear off, and he can be helped there partially under his own steam.”

“Then we shall return first thing tomorrow morning”, Sherlock said firmly. 

Mr. George Warburton scowled, but said nothing.

+~+~+

“Do you think that you will find anything in the colonel's room?” I asked as the carriage took us back to the inn. He turned to look at me.

“John”, he said carefully, “I presume that you have brought your gun down with you?”

A pleasurable chill ran down my spine.

“Yes”, I said excitedly.

“Then tonight we are going hunting”, he said.

“What for?” I asked, puzzled.

“A murderer.”

I looked at him in confusion, but clearly he would say no more. Damnation!

+~+~+

I was not surprised when our night trip took us back to the Hall. Sherlock went round the back, and easily opened one of the windows there.

“I left a couple open when I was here earlier”, he explained. “It pays to be prepared!”

We entered into a small sitting-room, and Sherlock checked to see if the coast was clear before leading me out into the corridor. I noted that he had chosen a window near the back stairs, and we were able to reach the first floor easily. Sherlock moved silently along – even though I was on tiptoes, my own steps sounded loud in comparison – until he reached a small, plain door.

“This is a store-cupboard”, he explained, “but it has a clear view of the colonel's door. We may have a long wait, my friend. I would assume that our poisoner would wish to wait until the small hours of the morning, when they could be more certain that everyone else in the house was asleep, before trying anything.”

I tried not to think about the fact that Sherlock had said 'they' rather than the usual 'he'. I had not considered – or rather, had not wanted to consider - Mrs. Warburton as a potential suspect.

My friend was proved right about our quarry, and it must have been after three o'clock that we finally heard movement, someone edging along the corridor and trying to keep quiet. There was the faintest of creaks, followed by the soft closing of the bedroom door. After what seemed like an age it opened again, and this time the night walker was moving almost directly towards us. As they passed the only window in the corridor, I could finally see their face. I had to work hard to suppress a gasp.

The figure passed on, presumably to their own bedroom, and after a few moments Sherlock nudged me, and we made our way silently from the house.

+~+~+

The following morning, Sherlock and I made certain preparations before our visit to the Hall, arriving there shortly after nine o'clock. I was dispatched upstairs to make a quick check on the colonel's state of health, and returned ten minutes later to find my friend in the room with the four Warburtons.

“So you wish to check the old man's room today, then?” Thomas Warburton asked.

“I no longer need to”, Sherlock said airily. “I know who the poisoner was, I know how it was done, and most importantly of all, I have proof!”

They all stared at him in shock.

“How?” Matthew Warburton asked suspiciously. “Where from?”

Sherlock looked at me, and I solemnly handed him a plain white envelope. He walked over to the desk in the room and carefully arranged a writing pad before tipping out a small quantity of ash from the envelope, which he resealed. The four Warburtons watched him in fascination. Sherlock looked pointedly at Thomas Warburton.

“It was your own kindness that gave you away”, he said quietly, so much that I could barely hear him. “You knew that your father was restricted in the things that he could eat, and you knew that he would resent not being able to have the same dessert as the rest of you. So you arranged an extra little treat for him. He has a weakness for cherries – your staff told me - so you purchased some from the village shop that morning, and gave them to him in his room after luncheon.”

Thomas Warburton had gone deathly pale.

“No!” he stammered. 

“I asked Doctor Smith about his examination of the colonel after he sedated him”, Sherlock said, “and although I know you all have a low opinion of him, it was his acute observational skills that set me on the right track. He said that he was confused on one matter. Although the colonel only had apple-pie for luncheon, his teeth were stained as if he had been eating some sort of dark fruit.”

The three other Warburtons were now all eying Mr. Thomas warily.

“Tommy”, his elder brother said. “Why?”

Sherlock held up his hand for silence.

“I said that there was proof”, he said. “I am afraid that I had to undertake a small deception to get it. In my brief time in your father's room yesterday, I found the remains of the cherry stalks in a small waste-paper basket. It struck me that, if the murderer realized that this evidence might connect them to the crime, then they would move quickly to destroy it. Last night, one of you entered your father's room and retrieved those stalks, then took them back to their own room and placed them in their fireplace.”

He stood back from the desk. Even though he was shorter in stature than the three Warburtons, he seemed to tower over them.

“I doubt that you are aware of it”, he said, “but science had progressed amazingly these past few years. It is now possible to examine the ash from a fire, and deduce exactly what was burnt in that fire. My second deception involved the good doctor here, who as well as checking on your father, visited the murderer's room and extracted these ashes from the fireplace there. These prove who the murderer is.”

At that most untimely moment, the door opened and a familiar figure ran into the room. It was little Benjamin Warburton. He smiled and ran over to his mother, and his path took him by his uncles. 

I saw the flash of a knife almost too late. Mr. George Warburton's face twisted beyond recognition in anger as he reached for the boy, clearly determined to use him to make his escape. I didn't hesitate, snarling my fury and flying across the distance between us so fast that I knocked Mr. Thomas Warburton clean over. My hands fasted around the murderer's neck and I pressed him back into the fireplace, my eyes black with anger.

“Doctor!”

It was Sherlock's voice, as calm as ever, Sherlock's hand placed gently on my shoulder, and I slowly realized that I was actually trying to kill a fellow human being. My grip relaxed, and I dimly heard Mrs. Warburton and her husband hustling their son from the room, and her brother-in-law summoning a servant and ordering them to fetch the local constable. All I could feel was Sherlock's hand on my shoulder, bringing me back to reality as the wretch that I had nearly strangled lay before me.

+~+~+

“So how did Mr. George Warburton manage to poison the cherries?” I asked.

It was probably the first words that I had spoken since the attack. I had left the Hall in silence and had not spoken all evening, trying to come to terms with the sheer fury that I had felt, the demon inside me that had gone for Mr. George Warburton intending to kill him. Sherlock looked at me curiously.

“I would presume that he called for his brother on his way down to luncheon, saw the cherries, and guessed what he would do”, he said. “He was waiting for just such an opportunity.”

I nodded, but said nothing. Sherlock sighed.

“John”, he said in that gravelled growl of his, “you are being too hard on yourself. You saw your own flesh and blood being threatened, and you reacted accordingly. Everyone has a point at which they break, something which will make them react like that. There is nothing wrong in yours being your potential flesh and blood.”

I shuddered, and moved instinctively closer to him. It was a bitterly cold day for our drive back to Alresford Station, and I felt numb inside. The events of the past few days had been a lot to take in. He did not hesitate before wrapping a comforting arm around me, and we drove on in silence.

+~+~+

In our next case, the actions – or inactions - of a parlourmaid have some unexpected consequences.


End file.
